Pain & Press
by WildeOne
Summary: *COMPLETE* Hermione/Fleur. FEMMESLASH. Reasonably short happy fluffy slash piece involving HG/FD. Enjoy!


Disclaimer: Poor JKR would probably have an aneurysm if she saw what I was doing to her precious Fleur et Hermione. My most humble apologies. Honestly. I own nothing. On reflection, I think Virgil would probably re-die of shock if he saw the context in which I was perverting his work. The Beatles probably just wouldn't care. Oh well.

Ladies and gentlemen, yes, this FEMALE/FEMALE ACTION. Oh sweet merciful Christ what _is_ this world coming to? 

NOTE 4/25: Thanks to all the reviewers who've tried to correct my wayward French. In that light, I've made some adjustments, although I've checked with a native French speaker and she said my translation of "aimer" was spot on.  

This is dedicated to Nicki and my first lesbian experience. Good times, good times…         

_"Too late. The queen is caught between love's pain_

_and press. She feeds the wound within her veins;_

_she is eaten by a secret flame…_

_Care strips her limbs of calm and rest."_

                                                                        _The Aeneid_ Book IV, Virgil

_"I want you._

_I want you so bad._

_I want you._

_I want you so bad, it's driving me mad_

_It's driving me mad." _

_                                    I Want You_  The Beatles

                                                            Pain & Press   

Fucking bitch. I hate her, with that lithe body and luscious lips, flaunting herself around every corner. I think Ron will suffer from dehydration if he keeps drooling like that every time she says "'ello" in her French purr. Even Snape licks his lips nervously, unconsciously, uncertainly, around her. I thought the man was sterile. Or gay. He might still be (he and Professor Lupin seem very _close_) but that doesn't stop her from enticing him. I liked Snape once upon a time and couldn't even get him to reject me properly. But then, I know I've nothing on her charms, her sex.

I didn't like women before I met her, not really. I mean, there were occasional moments where I'd notice how pretty Parvati was, or how Pansy Parkinson was developing quite a chest. Maybe it had something to do with all the books I read, and all the protagonists were men and all the sidekicks were adoring women. Who knows? All I know is that I never really felt anything for anyone until Fleur Delacour. If it wasn't enough that she could siren-sing sway a man to his death with one flick of her hips or one word from her lips, as it that weren't enough, she wasn't stupid either. Not vacuous vapid fatuous, as I thought, as I fervently hoped. But Christ if she doesn't have a brain to match her tits (and believe me, they're stunning). She soaks up knowledge in that pretty skull of hers, devouring like there's no tomorrow. She lights up like fairy lights when she talks about Potions (I overheard her with Snape discussing the difficulties in translating Potion works into different languages) or Arithmancy, or Runes.

So goddamn if I haven't touched myself every night since she came here. Working my fingers back and forth until I'm so hot and so wet it's everything I can do not to scream as I think of her and come violently, leaving me sweat-drenched and shaking. She haunts me. So cliché I know; she is the monkey on my back. I know I should stay away from her, avoid her eyes like crystal daggers. Nothing will calm soothe assuage me. None of the usual books, the usual music, even a bath won't calm my skittish mind or stay my aching fingers.

And there she was, in my library. She sat there, with this innocent look smeared across her face, so childishly enveloped in those pages. Unconsciously she pulled spare strands of her silky hair behind her ear, and glanced up to catch my stare straight on.

"'ermione!"

I shivered. She waved and motioned me over. I was reluctant, or I should've been, lest she saw my lust take over my eyes, tainting my pupils.

"'ermione! 'ow good to zee you."

"Bon soir, Fleur. Ça va?" She seemed inordinately delighted at my rudimentary grasp of her tongue (no pun intended). I was surprised at how she looked, robe-less,  and sans make-up. It was late, and we were alone in the library (even Madam Pince has to eat sometimes). I wonder if she suffers from insomnia as I am? She'd pulled that gorgeous hair back into a loose ponytail, and there were loose strands of hair, and I could practically see her tits through that flimsy tight white t-shirt. Her jeans were faded light blue with holes and her feet were bare curled up in her lap on the chair. 

She took my breath away.

" Ça va bien merci, et toi?

Gah, I must be losing my mind if merely her voice undoes me so. I was swimming coated in chocolate and I was drowning in it, but somehow I didn't even think to call for help and then I was far too beyond redemption…

"Ça va. I didn't know you wore glasses." I ventured, not wanting to let the moment end until I'd made at least *one*  attempt at seduction. Who would know that prim and proper Hermione Granger had made plans to seduce a part-Veela? (It never occurred to me that her throat could possibly be as dry as mine with the same desiccating desire.)

"Oui," she rolled her perfect eyes and it struck me as unfair that such a casual gesture could be so goddamn _sensual_, "I spell my eyes in the morning so zat I can see all day and be pretty, mais…ah, excuse me, I'm tired so I slip into my tongue very easily," I didn't bother correcting her as hearing her say "my tongue" was just too good. I nodded my forgiveness and she continued, "But at night when I'm alone and reading, I don't need to be pretty."

"You're always beautiful," I protested, before I could stop myself. I wanted to scream at not only the insincere stupidity of the cliché, but at my own stupidity for verbalising my desire.

And then she blushed. Get this, Fleur Delacour  the Princess of All Things Beautiful, blushed at a simple late-night compliment from a friend. A friend. My breath congealed and coagulated in my lungs as I waited tense for her condemnation.

"Zank you 'Ermione," she said shyly uncertainly.

"Mais c'est vrai," I spat mockingly, it's so obvious don't act surprised you bitch, "Tu es _très _belle, comme la crepuscule couvert avec le miel douce et ardent, ou peut-être l'aube avec le foudre et les fleurs. Tu es… tu es intelligente, et gentille et belle et… si parfait. Je dois aller." I turned to leave but her single word stopped me dead.

"Pourquoi?"

"You're so fucking beautiful and you could have anyone you wanted but you have to torture _me_, and come into _my_ library and…just leave me alone, s'il te plaît?" I turned for the second time and almost made it out before her quiet question stopped me again.

"'ow do I torture you?" almost inaudible but it scratched across my eardrums loud and fierce. I couldn't face her but I answered, back turned,

"Je te veux." And I made it out of the door this time before her startled, angry tirade startled me into pausing again, as she ran out of the library to catch up to me in the corridor.

"Tu me veux? Tu me _veux_? 'ermione Granger, you are the most beautiful woman in the world, so fiery and full of life, with a mind like…a steel? trap…et tu _me_ veux?" Surprising in its anger its intensity its _passion_.

And then there was a soft hand on my back, questioning. I answered without words. Turn around, a hand on her cheek, a thumb across her lips.

"Your lips are like escaped angels," I said in awe as she smiled,

"And yours are moving too much."

She kissed me. Water-smooth, cool-light and oh I'm drowning in this hot abyss.

And then I remembered that this was Fleur, coquettish French tease. I remembered my agony (forgotten in the perfection) and my earlier frustration and wrath returned. I poured it into the kiss, pushing probing penetrating her mouth with my tongue. I waited for her start, her withdrawal at the sudden acrid _ferocity_ I put into it. No soft gentle melding of soft virgin lips: this was my rage-lust manifest in forceful pressure against her, in the way my arms pinned her held her. This wasn't comfort and light, this was rape this was me caging her close to me you will never escape. My fingers tangled in her hair coercing her head closer to me, no escape now…only she didn't seem to want to. Instead of pulling away, she pulled in, matching me moan for tongue, wrapping her arms more securely around me. 

And then suddenly, somewhere in that kiss, my rage-lust dissipated and I wanted nothing more than to just hold her, my pale bare skin against her smooth copper flesh, my lips tasting her secrets. She seemed, that perceptive bitch, to understand that all of my pent-up sexual tension was gone. Pulling out of my arms, she touched a finger to my lips when I protested and asked, 

"Your room or mine?"

I just nodded as she smiled and took my hand. She led me back to my room and we tiptoed past the sleeping girls, trying not to giggle. I quickly sobered though, when she stroked fingers between my legs, and tumbled me onto my bed (finally reached, the adrenaline rush gone – not caught). My wand was on the bedside table and I quickly muttered Silencing and Distracting charms around the bed as she drew the curtains in between kisses. Breathing heavily, she pushed me down and any protests I might've made at being bottomed died as she peeled off her jeans (unself-consciously, neither shy nor flaunting.) and shirt – nothing underneath – and climbed on top of me, licking my neck, the sensitive outer rim of my ear (it all rushed liquid heat between my legs) tasting the bottom of my lip and finally kissing me deeply.

"Undress ma chère," I all but burned my clothes off, sloughing them off as unwanted barriers between her skin and mine. And then we were skin on skin and it was the most ethereal, erotic, sacred experience I've ever had. It was as if my soul was leaking into her through the pores of my skin. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by her reverence and beauty, and when I did she kissed the thin rubbery skin over my eyes so delicately so carefully so tenderly that I felt the warning-tightening in my chest, incipient tears. She moved her head to mine, and when I kissed her I wasn't thinking about how she would go back to France soon. I wasn't thinking about Ron or Harry and what they would say, or how wounded Viktor would look if he knew. I wasn't thinking about marks, school or my reputation. I wasn't thinking about yesterday today or tomorrow. All I was thinking about was how utterly sublime the kiss was, how earth-shattering, and yet somehow I was staying grounded. 

I flicked my tongue across her rising nipple, meticulously tracing her areole, pausing to suck lightly. And then I bit down, rolling her nipple between my teeth, changing pressure as I reached my fingers over to her other nipple. She arched involuntarily and gave a small gasp. She reciprocated and her inexpert (yet oh so good) fumblings surprised me through my haze of lust: she'd never done this before *at all*. I rejoiced in this knowledge, _she's all mine_, the possessiveness surprising me in its intensity. For all those lust-smouldered looks she's given, I'm the only one she's seen fit to go through with those unspoken promises of exquisitely carnal pleasure. She touched me in ways that never struck me as particularly sexual; feather-tipped fingers across my thigh, tongue glossing over my shoulder-blades, then fingers kneading away at knots on my neck I hadn't realised were there…bliss and heaven and rapture! And then her tongue small and hot across my nipples, between my legs…could there be anything more intimate? Her small gasps and inarticulate breaths as I did the same to her, revelling in my power.

That first time was gentle, soft but so very intense. We fell asleep together, her warm breath in my hair. I woke up a few hours later to her inquisitive hands and roving tongue. I shivered as she drew back the duvet and simultaneously smoothing her tongue across my stomach.

"Je suis desolée de t'être reveillé,"

"Mmmmmmm," I stretched languidly and then…pounced! She shrieked as I rolled us over and we made love again.

And again in the morning light. We had opened the curtains around the bed but kept the Silencing Charm up, and she added a keen little Obscuring charm; all so that I could watch the sun play across her breasts and hair. 

"You are like Venus or Aphrodite," I breathed in disbelief and wonder, "So beautiful."

And then she kissed me until all thoughts of mythology fled, and she was my everything.

But like all perfection, it had to end. We did manage to sleep together every night after that. Every night we'd talk, sometimes it was serious, sometimes it was silly and sometimes it was unabashedly sexual. And then we'd make love, and again sometimes it was serious and sometimes it was silly, but it was always _intense_. Until she had to leave. 

That day there was nothing to say. Neither of us had ever made any reference to love, or to anything beyond a friendly affection and great sex.

"Bon voyage Fleur." An awkward pause. What do you say to someone who has meant more to you in the past few weeks than anyone ever has before? What do you say to the only one who has ever understood the excitement of Arithmancy and the beauty of Potions?

"Au revoir, 'ermione. Je t'aime," whispered the last in my ear as she hugged me (a natural reaction between friends, of course, nothing untoward in that, no one batted an eyelash) and left.

So stunned as she left, it echoed and echoed.

"You okay 'mione?" Ron asked. 

"Yeah."

It still echoed, reverberated, resonated through me. 

_I love you._

**La Fin.**

AN: Look out for a sequel on this one…I'm not sure if there will be one…but hey, it could happen.

[La traduction/Translation: 

"But it's true, you are very beautiful, like dusk covered with sweet and fiery honey or maybe dawn with lightning and flowers. You are…you are intelligent and kind and beautiful and…so perfect. I have to go."

"Why?"

…..

"I want you."

"You want me? You _want_ me?

….

"Undress, my dear."

…

"I'm sorry I woke you,"

…

"Goodbye Hermione. I love you."]


End file.
